


Hakatai

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-08
Updated: 2006-12-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: In June, they were in Northern California, and Dean said, "Let's do that thing, huh."Sam knew right away what he was talking about.





	Hakatai

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the last scene of "Croatoan."

In June, they were in Northern California, and Dean said, "Let's do that thing, huh."

Sam knew right away what he was talking about.

They stopped at a Wal-mart in Elko, Nevada. Sam didn't get a look at Dean's shopping list until they were already inside, and by then it was too late.

"Cheetos," Dean said, reading what he'd written on the back of a grocery store receipt. "Pepsi. Beer. Granola bars. Uh, what else?"

"We're going _camping_ ," Sam said.

Dean gave him a blank look. "Yeah, and? Granola bars are good for camping."

Sam shook his head, amused. "Maybe we should get a tent," he said.

"What, _here_?" Dean asked. "Fuck that, we're going to one of those Rugged Wilderness Outfitter places."

"Okay," Sam said.

"You wanna sleep in a Wal-mart tent?" Dean asked.

"I'm not arguing!" Sam said.

"Well, good," Dean said, scowling. "You're pushing the cart."

Sam sighed, but pulled a cart out of the long stacked line. "You always make me push the cart."

"That's 'cause you're a little bitch," Dean said. "Let's go."

Sam followed behind Dean, not really paying attention to the crap Dean was throwing in the cart. Dean was like a little kid when it came to shopping—he grabbed whatever looked cool, and he was annoyingly susceptible to advertising. Sam always sorted through the cart before they checked out and made Dean go put stuff back on the shelves.

"We don't need skis," he said, when it looked like Dean was about to make a detour down the sporting goods aisle.

" _Fine_ ," Dean said.

It was past midnight, and the Wal-mart was practically deserted. A bored, pimply teenager pushed a mop around. Dean tossed two bags of Blo-pops into the cart.

Sam made him put back everything except the Gatorade and the sunblock.

"Nazi," Dean muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. "The only reason you get all this crap is to annoy me."

"Well, it works," Dean said, smirking.

"I should make you go wait in the damn car," Sam said.

Dean chortled and tossed a copy of Cosmo onto the conveyor belt. "Some light reading for the road," he said.

The girl at the cash register snapped her gum.

They stopped in Salt Lake City at dawn and ate breakfast at a Denny's. Sam had oatmeal with brown sugar. It was delicious.

"That looks like vomit," Dean said.

Sam planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "We don't really understand my powers, right?"

Dean looked wary. "Uh, right."

"I mean, they pretty much showed up out of nowhere. And they don't seem to make much sense."

"Where are you going with this, Sammy," Dean said.

"I'm just saying. Maybe if I think about it really, really hard, I can make your dick fall off in the middle of the night."

Dean shut up after that. When the waitress came over, Sam asked her for another bowl of oatmeal.

For once, Dean actually picked a motel that was pretty normal. No vibrating beds, no stuffed wildlife. Sam fell onto the bed and listened to Dean futzing around, turning the tap on in the bathroom, opening the little motel shampoo bottles.

"You mind if I take a shower?" Dean asked.

Sam tried to answer, but his mouth wouldn't open, and the next thing he knew, Dean was shaking him awake.

"I'm up," Sam mumbled.

"It's noon," Dean said. "Let's get going."

Sam sat up. "Did you even sleep?"

"Yeah," Dean said shortly.

"I'm driving," Sam said. "You're sleeping in the back seat."

"What am I, a little kid?" Dean snapped, but he stretched out in the back of the car and was snoring within five minutes.

Sam stopped for dinner in some nameless town along 89. There was a gas station with one pump, a diner, a post office, and a few ramshackle houses clustered around the highway, like they were afraid of the gaping expanse of the desert beyond.

He sat in the front seat for a while after he turned off the engine and watched Dean sleep in the rearview mirror. Dean was drooling a little onto the collar of his jacket.

"Dean," he said.

Dean flailed one arm and rolled off the seat into the footwell.

"It's time for dinner," Sam said, his mouth twitching.

"I hate you," Dean said. "Help me up."

Sam got out of the car and opened the rear door, grabbed Dean's feet and dragged him out onto the gravel parking lot. Dean lay there and blinked up at the sky, at Sam. He wrapped one hand around Sam's ankle.

"It's time for dinner," Sam said again, more gently.

Dean held out one hand, silently demanding. Sam reached down and helped him up.

They stopped for the night at the next motel they saw. Sam sat on his bed and watched TV until he was sure Dean had fallen asleep.

They hit the North Rim early the next morning.

"Stop at the ranger station," Dean said, his hand over his eyes.

"Man, why are you doing that," Sam said, laughing.

"I don't wanna see it until we're there!" Dean said.

Sam pulled into the parking lot at the ranger station and got out. The sun was just rising. There weren't many cars there yet, but Sam knew that in an hour or so, the place would be swarming with people. A few Japanese tourists were already wandering around, cameras in hand.

He went around to the passenger side and opened Dean's door, wrapped a hand around Dean's elbow and guided him out of the car. "We're here," he said.

Dean took his hands away from his face. "Jesus," he said.

They walked out along the trail to the overlook. It was really fucking hot. Sam was glad he'd stripped down to a t-shirt, left his flannel in the car. Dean, of course, still had his leather jacket on.

"Jesus," Dean said again. He put his hands on the railing and leaned out, peering down the face of the cliff.

"Yeah," Sam said.

"It's six million years old," Dean said.

Sam snorted. "You know how old the Grand Canyon is?"

"Yeah," Dean said, looking offended.

"Okay," Sam said.

They went back to the car and unloaded their stuff. Sam had done research—you needed a permit to camp overnight in the canyon, and they didn't have one; summer was the worst time to hike the canyon, too, and people died every season. He'd told all that to Dean, who just snorted and said, "Fuck that, Sammy, we're going. You think those fat-ass park rangers are gonna stop us?"

So they went.

It was a long, jarring way down. Sam's hiking boots were ancient, but they did the job. They stopped every hour or so for some Gatorade and a snack, and looked out over the canyon, the low scrub, the heat-pale sky, the striated rock. Other hikers passed them, going up and coming down, and Sam nodded to all of them, said hello.

"I guess you were probably too young to remember this," Dean said, "but we drove by here one summer, fuckin' ages ago, and I wanted to stop here so bad, but Dad wouldn't. He was chasing a chupacabra or something."

"We're here now," Sam said.

Dean grinned around his Gatorade bottle. "Yeah," he said.

It took them three hours to reach the bottom of the canyon, a mile deep.

"This is fuckin' ridiculous," Dean said, craning his head back to look at the rim of the canyon, so far above them.

"What is?" Sam asked.

"It's just. It's." Dean shook his head. "Whatever."

"I know," Sam said.

They hiked down along the river for a few miles. In the late afternoon, they followed a narrow inlet of the river upstream for a while, to a secluded canyon; pitched their tent there on the sandy bank.

"I'm gonna catch a fish," Dean announced.

"No you aren't," Sam said. He pulled off his boots and his socks and sat on a rock by the edge of the creek, swished his feet in the water. He had a few blisters, and the water felt wonderful on them, cool and soothing after the initial sting.

"No, I really am," Dean said. He pulled off his t-shirt and rolled his jeans above his knees.

Sam watched, amused, as Dean struggled with the laces on his boots. "You need some help?"

" _No_ ," Dean said. He finally got his shoes off and waded out into the creek. He was sunburned across the bridge of his nose, and his hair was sticking out in eighteen different directions, and he looked happy—he looked calm and happy, like he hadn't looked for months, and something was tight in Sam's throat, aching.

"You don't have a fishing pole," he said.

"Yeah, I'm gonna catch this motherfucker with my _bare hands_ ," Dean said, and made a big show of grabbing at something in the water.

"There aren't even any fish, are there," Sam said.

"No," Dean said sheepishly, straightening up.

"You retard," Sam said fondly.

He sat there and watched the shadows growing in the canyon; watched Dean cup water in his hands and splash it on his face, his bare chest. He felt restless inside, full of motion.

Dean waded out eventually and pulled his shirt back on. "I'll make hot dogs for dinner," he said.

"Okay," Sam said, and sat there and watched as Dean made a fire.

"Shit," Dean said suddenly.

"What," Sam said.

"There aren't any sticks," Dean said. "What else am I gonna skewer the wieners with?"

"Please tell me you didn't just say that," Sam said.

Dean smirked. "You know I did, baby."

"You're insane," Sam said, but he couldn't keep himself from grinning.

They ended up roasting the hot dogs on forks. Dean burned his fingers.

"I told you not to touch the metal part," Sam said.

"Shut up," Dean said, and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

After Dean put out the fire, they both lay there beside its steaming ashes, looking up at the night sky. The Milky Way was as thick and clear as Sam had ever seen it. There were meteorites, streaking bright and quick, and Sam made the same wish on all of them: Let us both be okay.

Late that night, he woke from a dream to the sound of Dean rustling around under his sheet.

"What is it," Sam murmured.

Dean didn't say anything, but his shadow moved against the wall of the tent, backlit by moonlight reflecting off the creek. It rose, flexed, stretched skinny and spare up onto the roof.

"Dean," Sam said.

"Shh," Dean said. He scooted closer, pressed his warm body against Sam's side. "I just—"

"What," Sam said.

Dean rubbed his nose against Sam's neck. "I don't know," he said. He bit Sam's jaw, slid one hand underneath the sheet, rested it flat along Sam's belly.

"Dean," Sam said again. He could feel the pulse of the artery in his stomach thrumming against Dean's hand. Every point of contact flared like a sodium light. He shifted—wanting, wanting, unsure.

"We're here," Dean said, and slid his hand down between Sam's legs.

They hiked out in the morning, at first light, headed toward the South Rim. Dean whistled through his teeth the whole way, and didn't stop even when Sam threw pebbles at the back of his head.  



End file.
